by Ken Altabef
Meadowlark steadied himself as he inspected the rocky crag. An entrance wasn’t evident at first, but when he turned a certain way, hung his head at a crooked angle, he could see a triangular gap in the rocks, hidden from view by the way the sides stuck out and overlapped like two snaggly teeth.
Though technically a longstanding member of the Winter Court, Black Annis lived here alone. Other faeries couldn’t tolerate her presence for very long. She sucked the life out of anyone who came near. Entering her cave would be like a fly setting down on a Venus fly trap, to be caged and cornered and slowly sucked dry. And here he was buzzing around the entrance.
“No fly,” he said. “No fly here. Just me.” He began to laugh. He tried to stop it, but that just made it worse. Anyway, a good laugh was a good way to demonstrate his good cheer. Would he laugh this way if he were intimidated or terrified? He thought not.
He leaned toward the gap in the rocks and announced cheerfully, “Haloo! I’m coming in!”
He forced himself to take one step and then another and then he was on his way. At first the cave was nothing more than a little channel, a narrow passageway in the rock that turned one way and then the next. The gloom was difficult even for faery eyes to penetrate and created a sense that danger lay just around the next corner. Or even death herself.
“How very dramatic,” he said, “I’m not afraid!”
His heart raced painfully. From excitement, no doubt. From anticipation. This was, perhaps, the greatest day of his life. Or the last.
And with another few steps the channel widened and he entered the lair of Black Annis.
I can’t breathe, he thought, I can’t breathe!
His legs tensed of their own volition, preparing to bolt from the cavern without waiting for further instruction. Look at me, he thought, just like a frightened squirrel. He clawed at the air in front of him, as if to dissipate a noxious odor. Panic and oppression hung heavy all around, like a pair of smothering blankets. He recognized an old faery trick, a way of concentrating emotion into the smoky air. Just like the faery glass. A children’s toy, being used against him. Black Annis’ spells of protection weren’t going to fool him. Not him.
He would tell her so, right to her face. But where was she?
As far as he could tell the cave was empty. A pile of filthy rags sat in one corner beside a mat of straw bedding crawling with beetles and centipedes. Strewn across the floor were discarded children’s playthings—a little wooden sailing ship, a girl’s doll with a broken face, spinning tops, hand puppets, a rocking horse. Most of them were splattered with dried blood. Meadowlark stepped carefully to avoid the piles of little bones, picked clean and charred from the fire. The seething sense of oppression grew steadily worse. In any case, she wasn’t here, so he might as well leave. He turned abruptly and something brushed his face in the gloom. He swept it aside. It was the empty skin of a young girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, hung up on a wire to dry. Her long blonde hair was still attached.
“Arrrgh!” he exclaimed, swatting away the dangling hair as if it were an annoying cobweb. “That’s sickening, that is. That’s disgusting!”
Enough. She wasn’t here.
In another instant he was outside again, catching his breath. Had he come all this way for nothing? Maybe the old hag had finally given up her ghost. He wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t even a body left at the end after all these years. Just a pile of dust to blow away in the wind. All gone. He’d never find her. Good riddance. He’d discover another way to the Winter Court. That was all.
Out of the cave, he felt an immediate sense of relief. He wanted to run through the woods and disappear into the green fastness of the glen. Instead, he walked aimlessly away, trying to reckon which way might take him back north again, and then he heard it. It was a small sound, unimposing, barely perceptible. But it did not belong. He cocked his head to listen, and a chill ran down his spine.
Now he heard it clear. The grinding of her teeth.
The sound was coming from the maple tree directly above him. He looked up but could see nothing amiss except the gentle swaying of the boughs under the autumn breeze. A drop of water stung his eye. When he wiped it away he found it was neither rainwater nor dew. It was thick and sticky. An old woman’s drool.
So that was it. He kicked off his boots and climbed the trunk of the tall maple, digging in with his toenails where handholds were scarce. Upon getting halfway up he became lost in an impossible maze of branches. There were too many of them, repeated at odd angles that made his head swim. He turned round and round in the nest of branches, going in crazy circles. If there was an opening here it would be even harder to find than the deceptive slit of the cave in the rocks. His eyes were useless. He had to feel his way. The grinding of the teeth stopped, then started again. On and off it came and went, in fits and starts. As he probed the leaves with an outstretched hand, Meadowlark opened his mind as well, sensing for an aberration in the pattern, some clue that would lead him to her lair. The grinding started again, more urgent than before.
“I know you’re here, Annis!”
The grinding stopped.
He was close, very close. This was another old trick of the faeries. An illusion, like any other, that could be broken, if one only knew where and how to look. The branches were a distraction. He concentrated on the leafy canopy of the maple tree; there was something about the way the leaves fit together, their outlines too sharp in some areas but not sharp enough in others. He climbed higher in the tree, moving like an ape, using bare feet and toes as much as hands. Yes, up close there were too many irregularities here, far too many.
He parted the curtain of leaves and clinging ivy and stepped into the illusion. Annis had constructed a tree-hold, a pocket of twisted space up in the tree that wasn’t really there. It was said the Dark Queen had constructed an entire realm that way; perhaps years ago Black Annis had taught her the secret. The tree-hold was a space that couldn’t possibly exist, a hideaway hidden by false leaves that existed in only two dimensions. When turned sideways they were so thin as to disappear.
The tree-hold was dark and gloomy. Meadowlark stepped into piles of the old crone’s filth and felt it squish between his toes. He followed the sound of her murderous teeth; the grinding had become absolutely frantic now. He mustered enough concentration to break the illusion entirely, piece by piece, like assembling a puzzle out of various little bits. He peeled away each illusory leaf until he could just make out a shadowy silhouette sitting on a seat at the far wall. The wide chair blended into the contour of the tree-hold; it seemed to be made of black branches and broad flat leaves with sharp points. It was impossible to make out the figure entirely. She seemed more a misshapen lump than a woman.
“What sweetmeat is this?” asked the raspy voice of Black Annis. “What child?”
“Not sweet and certainly no child.”
She leaned forward, sniffing.
“Come closer, child.”
Meadowlark approached. “I am called Samhain or Sprite-in-the-barb or Meadowlark as I prefer. I am late of the Summer Court.”
The dark figure spat at the ground in front of him as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. The old witch was so dry that nothing came out except a puff of rancid air.
She reached out an arm and waved him closer. Her hand was a clump of knobby knuckles with fingers as thick as sausages that ended in fingernails indistinguishable from thorny branch tips.
“Come closer, sweet Marrow-lark.”
The bulky figure wore a droopy washerwoman’s linen cap and a ragged robe covered with soil and muck. A few patches of owl’s feathers stuck out at odd places, a lingering reminder of the coat’s former days. One withered breast hung out, the nipple like a prune with big black veins clinging to its underside like a bat.
She rose slowly from her chair. Black Annis was so stooped with age, her back so crooked, she looked much the same standing as sitting.
“Fae. Little fae of the Summer Co
urt.” She grabbed his wrist and dragged him forward. She licked the side of his thumb, her tongue as rough as a scouring pad.
She squinted at him with a pair of beady little eyes, milk-clouded and cruel. Her face was darker than the rest, a mismatched tapestry of mottled blue which made her look as if she’d been choked to death repeatedly. She had a bulbous nose and ears like rotted wood, worn down by time and weather, their original shape nearly wiped away. Flabby lips hung down below her chin, like a thick meaty curtain crusted with disease. A single bead of spittle, which had probably been collecting for over a decade at least, finally fell from her lips.
“Rhubarb!” she shouted suddenly.
Meadowlark’s heart skipped a beat. He nearly jumped out of his skin.
Annis cackled wildly at his startled reaction, then settled back into the gloom. “See. See. I see you, little summer fae.”
Meadowlark gathered his wits, which seemed to have been scattered all round the musty tree-hold. He thought it important to at least appear calm and undaunted. “Well, certainly you do.”
“Spider’s nest. There’s the test. You walk right into my web?”
“I do.”
“Why? Tell me why.”
“Because I want something from you, my sweet. I want a certain bit of information, that’s all. I seek an audience with the Winter Court. And I know you can tell me where to find them?”
“Barter. Barter.”
This gave Meadowlark pause. He’d brought nothing along with which to barter. Really, he hadn’t thought he’d actually find her. Half believed she didn’t exist. He’d come completely empty handed. Well, there was always ‘old-reliable.’
“You must get so lonely here,” he noted sympathetically. “How long has it been since you’ve had a man up in here, or there, or anywhere?”
“Aye, you are a pretty one, I’m sure.” Black Annis offered a hideous smile. Blackened lips parted to reveal heavy, crushing teeth and powerful jaw muscles. Though he returned a charming smile of his own, Meadowlark wasn’t sure she could truly appreciate his charms. It seemed as if she didn’t see him at all. Her milky orbs roved around the room aimlessly.
“Let me put you under my tender care,” he said. “A few sweet moments to share.”
Annis leaned back again. “Old. I am a thousand years old. I can not put on a beautiful glamour like as before.”
“No matter,” he assured her. “Your withered skin will smooth to my caress, your withered lips will bloom as the rose in newfound spring. It only needs just a little time and attention.”
To prove his argument, he stepped closer still. Without hesitation he bent to press a kiss upon her grotesquely flabby, spittle-flecked lips. He considered that her devastating ugliness had a sort of beauty all its own, like water so hot it feels cold as it burns the fingers. But such intense ugliness could well hamper the entire procedure. He had confidence in his virility to be sure, but there were limits…
He tried to turn to more pleasant thoughts, to picture some other young faery with a lovely face perhaps, or pretty golden hair. He could not. Annis was so cold and dry, like kissing naked tree bark in winter.
She laughed as he pulled back. “Nonsense. Kisses and caresses, I haven’t any interest in that sort of nonsense anymore.”
This rejection, coming from such a hideous hag, stung Meadowlark to the core. She might at least appreciate his efforts. This was no use. He might just as well stick his cock into a knothole in the maple tree or the rough wall of her cave. “So what is it that you do want?”
“Boon. A boon, my sweet-meat.”
“Tell me.”
She laughed again, a totally wicked laugh. “The child. I want the child.”
“I see,” said Meadowlark, still mildly annoyed but also greatly relieved. “And what child is that?”
“South. South. Just a little way down the river Trent, there’s a town called Leicestershire. Not far across the glen lies a woodcutter’s cottage. In the bedroom, on the second floor, sleeps a baby boy. A sweet-meat baby boy. I want that child. I want to taste the sweet marrow in his bones. Go fetch him for me.”
Chapter 10
Nora wished she owned a more extensive wardrobe in London than just the pair of dresses she’d brought from Grayson Hall. Once again she was left wearing the same frock Charles Thurston had seen her in on any number of occasions before—a simple blue silk afternoon dress. She parted the front panels a little to reveal the edge of the white muslin gown beneath and just enough lace collar to engage a man’s eye. She added a white crepe hat with colorful damask roses around the brim. All in all, her outfit was more suitable for a morning walk in the country than a formal affair at Covent Garden. Not that it mattered at all; this party did not demand the height of fashion.
The crowd of merrymakers inhabiting the great stage of the Barge, converted to a makeshift ballroom floor, were not exactly the cream of fashionable society. After all, most of them were poor actors and playwrights, and starving actresses. It was not yet nine o’clock and already all the men were stumbling drunk. And the women only slightly better. Rather than the latest French fashions, these grandes dames were dressed in old costumes and faded chintz. Of those who tried to compete in the arena of womanly fashion, most wore sack-ball gowns with short trains. Only a few ladies had wide, formal hoops and they seemed completely out of place. Not that anything could be out of place standing arm-in-arm with someone dressed as Henry VIII or Caliban.
Thurston looked dashing in a coat and breeches of matching yellow silk. Over this he wore a perfectly white waistcoat with embroidery in a rusty red color. In a concession to elegance he had put on an old tie wig whose curls were drawn back in a single tail with a bow of yellow ribbon. Whatever else she thought of him, he was a strikingly handsome young man. Good looks aside, he was also pretentious and generally vapid, but she couldn’t help liking him all the same.
She also couldn’t help comparing Thurston’s looks with those of Threadneedle. Her new faery acquaintance had a pleasant face with the long sharp lines of an aristocrat. His nose was perfectly straight, not too wide or too long. The angle of his jaw was sharp and strong but not overbearing. Of course, she was fooled by none of that. Had she really seen his face at all? His real face?
She knew she had not. He wore the false face of a rich benefactor; handsome or not, it was only a mask. Threadneedle had, as yet, kept his faery face hidden from her. Still, she was impressed by his eyes. Her mother had taught her that. When dealing with faeries, she had said, the eyes always spoke true. Threadneedle had the most soulful and joyous eyes Nora had ever seen.
Not that Thurston’s eyes were dull, lifeless orbs. Beneath his pretentiousness and flippant attitude, which Nora believed also to be a false sort of a public mask, her beau was a sensitive man who cared deeply for her. Which man was more real? The earnest lover beneath Thurston’s lascivious smile, or the enigmatic and vulnerable soul behind Threadneedle’s polished exterior? Perhaps one day she’d find out. For now, on top of two glasses of spiced rum, such conundrums made her dizzy.
One of the stage hands, stumbling drunk and wearing a huge papier-mâché headpiece of the donkey-faced Bottom from the Menagerie’s current production of Midsummer Night’s Dream, came charging toward them. The head swung wildly as he tried to see where he might be going, but did not slow his pace as he nearly collided with the both of them. Thurston sidestepped the charge just in time, slapping the mule’s buttocks as he went by as if he had been a matador.
“What an ass!” he said.
Nora chuckled.
“No, really Anne. You know that’s Reginald Scott under that worm-eaten helm. I believe he’s ashamed to show his face. Haven’t you heard?”
“No. Heard what?”
“Well, I don’t want to seem like a frivolous gossip…” He waved his hand daintily in front of his mouth with a perfect grandmarm flourish.
“No, never,” she chuckled. “Go on!”
“Well, you know he’s b
een courting Amelia Kent, the fruit-seller down the street. But it’s come to light he’s already married. A wife and two children down in Surrey.”
Nora shook her head in disgust. “Poor Amelia! She told me she was in love with him. Oh, she must be devastated.”
“Well, you know what they say. Never trust an actor.” He cast a conspiratorial wink at her.
Nora nearly blushed. Thurston was very charming when he tried to be cute. “Spagnelli tells me the same thing every chance he gets.” She wiggled her index finger at him.
“Does he? He should talk! You know he isn’t really Italian at all. He’s a Pole! I swear it.”
They both broke down laughing and when they were done, their eyes met. Nora caught her breath. Thurston was so handsome, smiling and carefree.
“Give us a kiss, Anne,” he said.
“No. Not here, in front of everyone.”
He scowled. Smiling or scowling, he was devilishly handsome either way. She could fall right into those eyes and be lost forever. But not tonight. She kept thinking about Threadneedle and his weird proposition.
“Well, then,” Thurston said, “if there is no kiss in the offing, what about a dance?”
She turned her legs outward and bent at the waist, then straightened again, all the while carefully holding his gaze. After the curtsy, she placed her left hand in his and they both turned to address the party with a formal bow that went completely unnoticed among the lot of drunken carousing. Once these rituals were accomplished, they stepped into the middle of the stage. A spirited quartet had just begun the next song, a familiar country dance.
Nora and Thurston shuffled quickly into place as the dancing started. Fifteen couples were arranged opposite one another across the stage. This sort of dance, performed by the ragged company assembled, tended to cast aside all propriety before it was even halfway done. Perhaps that’s why it seemed such good fun. Nora, however, kept her head upright, her spine straight, maintaining correct posture all the way through. She’d been raised in a nobleman’s household and taught well. She could not be wild and loose, not even as an affectation.
